


the melancholy haphazard of facts

by weatheredlaw



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: M/M, Marijuana, Multiple Orgasms, Shotgunning, captain america smokes weed and so should you, pretentious beach house fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-28
Updated: 2012-08-28
Packaged: 2017-11-13 01:42:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/498030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weatheredlaw/pseuds/weatheredlaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I've got you," he murmurs (standing on the edge where sea meets land, clinging to the precipice of time and age, this is not a love story this is a song). "I've got you."</p>
            </blockquote>





	the melancholy haphazard of facts

**Author's Note:**

> my favorite settings are pretentious dwellings near beaches or in rural missouri and a seaside romance was just too irresistible.

Steve meets Bruce in California.

He sees him while he's paying for a couple weeks in a beach house, right on the sand, a curling, ugly monkey tree in the front yard. Bruce is standing in the surf, pant legs rolled up to his knees, hands deep in his pockets. He looks like he should, to Steve. Peaceful. 

"How's the swell today old man?"

"Killer." Bruce looks at him, squinting behind a pair of sunglass probably stolen from Tony. "Who sent you to get me?"

Steve frowns. "No one. Didn't realize you needed to be gotten."

"Mmm." Bruce nods, turns back to the ocean. 

"Figured you'd be half-way around the world by now."

"I have some freedom. Thought I'd linger state-side for a while. It's been years since I've been to California."

Steve nods, mimicking Bruce's posture and watching a line of surfers disappear into the waves. "Me, too."

 

 

Steve offers him the couch in the beach house, and Bruce accepts. The entire place smells like sand and salt. Bruce runs his hands over the sandalwood of the furniture, comments on the build and quality, and lays down on the couch. "Just a nap," he mutters, but he's out for six hours, the daylight sinking into the ocean while Steve heads out to find something to eat. He comes back and Bruce is sitting up, blinking in the dim lamplight of the living room. 

"I got Thai," Steve says, lifting a bag. Bruce nods and eats ravenously when they sit at the table, and Steve remembers the way he'd eaten at the restaurant, purposefully and steadily, taking care of himself. They both ignore the chopsticks and Bruce says something about the bean sprouts that gets lost between Steve wanting more chicken and realizing with a flush that he also wants Bruce. 

Bruce asks, "When were you in Cali?" and Steve fumbles over the answer.

"War bonds tour. It was a long time ago. One of my last."

"You see a lot of it?"

"Not really. I had a schedule. You know, I was...I wasn't--"

Bruce nods, and Steve knows he understands.

"I came to see it on my own terms. Tony gave me the bike."

"It's a good bike. It's a good reason, too. You should always experience the world on your own terms."

Steve looks away, reaches for the other box of rice. "That what you're doing?"

Bruce stops eating, food half-way between his plate and his mouth. "Maybe," he says quietly. He sets the fork down. "I think I'll walk." Steve stands up and the chair screeches against the wooden floors. "Alone, Steve." 

"Don't...I'll wait up, then."

"You don't have to."

"I want to."

Bruce only looks back at him once before slipping on his shoes by the door and heading out, the door snapping shut quietly behind him. Steve feels restless, nervous as he puts the plates away, suddenly unsure why he's so terrified of being alone. He'd ridden from New York to California by himself, stayed in hotels by himself, eaten by himself. Bruce doesn't exactly leave behind a warmth to remember, but he leaves behind _something_ and Steve is pacing, scrubbing down the kitchen counters and the rough wooden cabinets. Everything here is covered in sand, it's in the corners and in the sheets of his bed, too. He pulls them off and hangs them outside to air out, watching down the pebbled walk for Bruce to come back.

"Hey, Susie homemaker." Steve looks up and Bruce is leaning against the house, smiling. "Everything in this house is filthy."

"Sorry, I just--"

"Want some help?" Steve looks from the sheets back to Bruce and nods. They pull them off the line, dropping the clothespins in a bucket just by the door. Bruce shows Steve how to fold hospital corners and Steve tries not to imagine what Bruce would look like on top of him, between the sheets, mouth on his shoulder, on his neck, on his chest -- "Steve?"

"Huh? Sorry. I'm tired. I drove all day."

"Yeah. I'm gonna crash on the couch."

"Right."

"Thanks, by the way."

"Oh, it's cool. It's just--"

"It means a lot." 

Steve nods, and Bruce nods, and they go their separate ways. It's a long night, and Steve isn't sure how he makes it, isn't sure why he wants this in the first place, fisting his cock and thinking about Bruce and his mouth and his hands because _God_ he has amazing hands, wide and warm and rough. Steve spills over his fingers, trying to keep himself quiet. He cleans himself in the sink, changes his sweats, and finally falls asleep.

 

 

Steve wakes up early, the unsettling sounds of his mother's music coming from the living room. He pulls on a shirt and heads out of his room, watching Bruce move through the kitchen, plating syrupy figs and goat cheese. "Hey. Did I wake you up?"

"No. I just...heard the music."

Bruce grins. "This thing still works," he says, pointing to the record player. "Couldn't believe it. Got the sand out of it and she sounds beautiful. My mother loved Ella."

"Mine, too." Bruce glances over, the hint of a flush on his neck, before he sets juice on the table. Steve settles in a chair and reaches for the figs, watching Bruce heap goat cheese on his own plate and eat them with his fingers.

This is just really fucking unfair, at this point.

Bruce talks about the farmer's market down the street, his hands moving through the air in pathetically distracting ways that make Steve hard and stupid. He only half-listens to Bruce's quiet story about the figs and the cheese and eats them off the plate one by one. Bruce says something about swimming, and Steve nods, not sure why -- the ocean is a bitter, biting cold, and it's still overcast. But Bruce heads out the door a while later, blanket folded under his arms. Steve stays on the beach opting to watch as Bruce dives into the spray, arms arcing over his head expertly. 

It's hard not to stare, so he just does.

 

 

Bruce sends him out for wine, because you can't have whatever he's making without wine, he insists. Steve stands in front of the shelf awkwardly, because he doesn't buy wine, like, ever, and he can't remember the last time he had it. He grabs one off the shelf and picks up some toothpaste while he's there, some gum and a bottle of shampoo and, because he is so very single-minded and thinking about the way Bruce eats figs and Bruce swims in the ocean and Bruce is sleeping on the couch -- he grabs a bottle of lube and some condoms.

There's a pot of something boiling in the kitchen -- " _Paella,_ Bruce supples -- and he sets the wine on the table, stashing the rest of his stuff under his bed like an idiot. They drink out of mugs and eat out of scrubbed wooden bowls in the living room, playing a sand-filled Scrabble game on the coffee table. Steve wins, but only because Bruce is intent on spelling three-letter words the entire time. "You suck at this."

"I dislike games where you're forced to spell. It's oppressive." Bruce pours another glass of wine. "So you're not, like, SHIELD's new poster boy then?"

"Why? They offer it to you?" Bruce laughs, wine spitting from his mouth. 

"No. Definitely not. I think Thor should do it." Steve takes another sip and pushes a clam around his bowl. "I wouldn't want you to be. It's a waste. You're way too pretty to be on posters. I mean, have you see your face? There's a website about your face. Just your face! Pepper found it and forwarded it everyone."

"Not me."

"You don't check your emails. It's stupid."

"Emails are stupid."

"You know what's stupid?" Steve looks up. "That you and I aren't making out. All over this floor. Like, right now." 

Bruce crawls over to him and Steve is already moving forward, mouth open and ready. He wants this so bad it hurts. Literally -- he can feel his cock straining in his pants and if he doesn't get something out of this he might keel over, death by orgasm denial. Bruce is good at this, because why wouldn't he be? His mouth is warm and practiced, nothing like the jutting teeth and jaws Steve remembers from his youth. 

Bruce takes charge, putting his hand over Steve's chest and grabbing his shirt. "Off," he mutters, and Steve complies. "God you're beautiful. Like, just really, _really_ amazing--" He kisses him again. Steve leans back on his elbows and Bruce settles between his legs, kissing every inch of his chest, mapping and cataloguing and storing away. He undoes the buttons of Steve's jeans, feeling his erection through his boxers and finally tugging it out. "Is this happening too fast? Are you okay--"

"God, _please_ stop talking."

"Easy," Bruce says, and swallows around his cock. Steve moans, lifting his hips and fucking deeper into Bruce's mouth. He feels it reach the back of his throat, and Bruce doesn't even flinch, taking him all down. 

"Come on," Steve murmurs. "Come on, _come on_ \--" Bruce hollows his cheeks, reaches down to cup Steve's balls and sucks hard. "That's good," he manages. "Really good. _Shit_ \--" He can feel his gut tightening and he knows he's not going to last long -- he never was, and he comes hard down his throat, groaning and falling onto the floor. Bruce swallows and licks him clean, resuming his goal of learning every inch of Steve's body with his tongue. 

"You like that?" Steve nods lazily and closes his eyes. He feels Bruce's cock in the dip of his groin and reaches down the wraps his hands around it. " _Fuck_ \--" Steve kisses him slowly, jerks him off steadily until Bruce is coming between them, striping Steve's chest and spilling over his hand. "God, _God_ what did I do to deserve that?"

"Was it that bad?"

"Shut _up_ \--" Bruce rolls over onto his back, sated and happy. He strokes his fingers idly over Steve's chest, smiling. He falls asleep, hand still resting there and Steve wonders if maybe this was a mistake, thinks about the night before, frantically cleaning and wondering if Bruce was going to come back. Steve understands the need to run -- he ran for so long before he joined the army, he kept running when he finally got there, hasn't really stopped. 

 

 

"People are staring," Steve mutters while Bruce drips water on him from above and kisses him. "Like, a lot."

"Am I embarrassing you?"

"No."

Bruce smiles and shifts onto his back. "They're staring at you, Cap."

Steve grunts and sits up, blinking into the sun. Bruce reaches up and steals his glasses off his head, peering through them. "Are they?"

"Doesn't everyone?" Steve smirks and takes the glasses back. Bruce sits up and kisses his shoulder. "I think I understand why."

"Mmhm."

Bruce huffs and frowns. "I'm hungry. Let's get out of here, people staring makes me nervous." He stands quickly and Steve follows, sticking close to his side as they walk up the hill. "You want me to cook?"

"I want you," Steve says quietly, leaning in and capturing his lips. Bruce sighs against them, curling his hands around Steve's neck. It's still sort of new, having Bruce here and getting something back every time he gives a little. Bruce is good at that. Their push and pull is gentle and even and it warms him, makes Steve feel like he's floating. 

"Likewise."

It's only been a few days since he saw Bruce standing on the wet edge of the world, foam washing over his ankles, but Steve feels like it's already been weeks, months even, the way Bruce moves around him, comfortable and easy. They fall onto the couch and Bruce pushes their jeans down, thrusting their cocks in his fist. "Tell me...tell... _fuck_ , Steve--"

"What do you need?"

"Tell me why you want me. I need...I need to know. I haven't... _God_ , it's been so long since someone has, just--"

Steve nods, clasps Bruce to him and mouths against his ear. "I want you because you understand. You understand what it's like and I want you because you're so easy to be around, so easy to touch. _Bruce_ \-- _God_ , you feel so good, feel like home and I don't know why I couldn't see it before -- gonna come, _shit_ \--" Steve groans into his finish and watches Bruce desperately fuck his own fist, mouth falling open as he comes, spilling onto Steve, spilling his name, breathing ragged, but controlled. He drops his head down on Steve's shoulder and they stay like that for a while, panting and touching and saying soft things they only say here. 

"I need a shower," Bruce mutters, getting up and looking at them both. "You too, nasty. Up-up." Bruce walks and tugs down his jeans, dropping them before he turns the corner into the bathroom. He looks back at Steve. "Don't act like you don't want this."

Steve grins and pushes himself off the couch. Because yeah. He wants it.

 

 

The call comes down from SHIELD that politely asks if Steve would escort his own ass back to New York and report for a secondary debriefing, but he ignores it. It's the third time they've asked and he still hasn't come up with the worst they could do to him if he doesn't. He's deleting the voicemail when Bruce comes in, holding what Steve really fucking hopes he's not holding. There isn't enough luck left in the world. 

"Did you buy condoms?" Bruce inspects the box, pushing his glasses further down his nose. "Wow. They're even _ribbed for her pleasure._ "

Steve blinks. "What? Who? I don't...I don't even...condoms? That's not...Some sicko must've left those there. I'll just, you know, give those to me? I'll take care of 'em no worries." Bruce arches an eyebrow and looks into the bag again. "I'm really sorry."

"No, it's fine." He tosses the box in the air. "I think it's nice. You bought gum, too. You tryin' to tell me something?" He leans into Steve, pinning him to the counter. "Don't like my breath?"

"When was the last time the Hulk brushed his teeth?"

"Mmhm, and you've got super serum to fight your plaque, don't you?"

"You're obnoxious."

"And you're painfully and endearingly hopeless, but I like you anyway." Bruce sighs, pulling Steve's bottom lip gently between his teeth, tongue slipping into his mouth. "These expire, you know."

"Seriously?" Bruce tosses his head back, laughing. " _Ass._ " 

 

 

Steve rents the house for the rest of the summer, after the second week ends. He heads back from the owner's house down the walk, glancing up at the clouds coming in, smells the rain before it falls. Bruce is perched on the railing of the porch, the curl of a mango peel twirling down between his knees. He smiles when Steve comes up, finishes peeling it, and cuts him off a piece. "More from your fair-trade free-market locally grown adventure?"

"You say that like it's a bad thing." He cuts off a piece for himself. "How was your walk?"

"Good. Summer's paid for."

"That's nice." Bruce looks out at the ocean. "S'gonna storm."

"Mmm."

"I wanted to watch it come in." He pushes himself off the porch. "Wanna come with?" Steve nods, following him and chewing on mango. Bruce is barefoot, pants rolled halfway up his calves. He looks like he dressed himself blind this morning, but his muscles are so pliant under Steve's hands these days, skin soft and melted and body boneless and warm. Steve drags his fingers through Bruce's hair in the mornings when he's reading on the couch, and he feels him arch into it, hums like a cat and grabs Steve by his arm to kiss him. It's something Steve wants to remember later, when Bruce is gone.

It starts raining sooner than they thought it would, but Bruce doesn't leave the beach. Steve bumps his shoulder, and they slump into the sand and kiss in the rain until Bruce is shivering from the cold and they are both soaked to the bone. "Not yet," he says, clinging to Steve's shirt, and Steve doesn't move, neither of them move, not until the storm moves completely in and it's so cold even Steve's beginning to feel it. 

"Come on," he urges, and Bruce concedes, walking with him up the beach and back to the house. Steve shuts the door behind them against the wind and rain, says something about towels. 

Bruce says, "Shut up," and crowds Steve against the door, twisting his fingers in his hair and kissing him, hard and open-mouthed and wet. Steve gets out of his shirt, feels Bruce tugging on his hand, following him down the hall into the bedroom. He's so cold and so wet and so _hard_ that it doesn't matter, not when Bruce shoves him on the bed and peels his jeans down and tosses them away, mouths him through his boxers and works the buttons on his own shirt. 

Steve never gets used to the way people stare at his body. For him it hasn't been that long since he was small, the memories still painfully fresh in his mind. Broken bones and asthma attacks and constant headaches -- he looks away when Bruce runs his hands over his chest, but feels cold fingers draw his eyes back up.

"I want all of you," Bruce murmurs. And Steve understands, pushing himself up onto his elbows and letting Bruce tug off the rest of their clothes. He fishes the lube and a condom from the bedside table and shoves them into Bruce's hands because he can't responsibly handle what he thinks is about to happen without _howling._ "It's okay," Bruce says, spreading his hand over Steve's heart. "I've got you." Steve nods, drops his head back against the pillows, and watches Bruce coat his fingers. Steve spreads his legs a little farther. 

Bruce preps him slowly, like he thinks they both might break. His fingers are thick and Steve huffs at the feel of them, of the drag and burn and the way they curl. They split at three and Steve shouts, digging his hands into Bruce's shoulder, too hard, hard enough to bruise, but they don't stop, don't push each other away. Bruce tears the condom open with his teeth and rolls it frantically over his cock before pulling his fingers out. He puts a rough hand under Steve's knee and shoves his shoulder under it before lining himself up and pushing in. 

"Holy _shit--_ " He stops gasping for breath and gets his bearings. "This is...you're so fucking _tight_ , I can't--"

"Slow," Steve murmurs, threading his fingers through Bruce's hair. "Just...just slow." Bruce nods and drops his head to Steve's chest, taking deep, shaky breaths. "You okay?"

"Yeah I just...it's a lot. It's a lot for me. For...for us." He shudders and Steve thinks he's going be paying for a lot more than a summer in this house. Bruce looks up, eyes glazed and a little green. Steve swallows. "Hold me," Bruce croaks. "Hold me still. Hold--"

Steve wraps his arms around him tight, leg falling off his shoulder onto the bed. Bruce breathes, over and over, and Steve can feel his teeth, feel his mouth, feel everything right now. Bruce moves his hips and pushes in further and Steve keeps his arms around him, groans and grips him tighter. " _Steve_ \--"

"I've got _you_ ," he murmurs, feeling Bruce smile. "I've got you." 

Finally Bruce moves again, hips carving out a steady rhythm, and Steve fists his hands in the sheets, listen to Bruce saying his name over and over again, almost in time with the storm rolling in still from the beach. Bruce's voice is broken and ragged and _happy_ \-- Steve can feel him moving with more urgency, more need, more _more_. And when Bruce comes, Steve holds his face between his hands and watches him breathe through it, nothing but _stevestevestevesteve_ falling from his mouth.

It's a few minutes before Bruce pulls out and slips down the length of Steve's body, taking his cock into his mouth. Steve hisses and his hips pop up sharply, body fucked out and sore and needy. He comes and Bruce swallows him down, dropping his mouth along the curve of Steve's hip as he trails his fingers over his thighs, tests his ass and smiles when Steve groans. 

"S'good."

"Hnnnnn," Steve answers.

 

 

Steve wakes up and Bruce is gone from the room. He sits up and blinks through his sleep, throwing back the sheets and grabbing sweats from the drawer. _He's not gone, he's not gone, he's not--_

He’s not gone. "Hey." Bruce is sitting on the porch, looking over his shoulder, something smoking in his hand. "You're up."

"So are you."

"The storm washed a lot of shit onto the beach. The junk collectors are out in full form."

"Are you smoking?"

"Mmhm. Want some?" Steve pinches the end of the joint carefully and takes a hit, coughing through it. Bruce grins. "A very nice war veteran sold this to me."

"God bless America, I guess."

"At ease, soldier."

Steve smiles and takes another hit, passing it back. "You're going soon, aren't you?" Bruce nods. "I figured."

"You'll stay here?"

"Yeah, for a bit. SHIELD wants me back, but I don't think they can really do much to me if I don't. I'm a national treasure," he explains. Bruce rolls his eyes. "Anyway. Where'll you go?"

"North, I think. Then west. I promised Pepper I'd meet go with her to Tokyo next month. We're meeting in Portland."

"Tell her I said hi."

Bruce settles onto his back, laying his head in Steve's lap as they trade the joint back and forth. "Are you mad?"

"Hmm?" Steve glances down. "No. I'm not mad. I wish you would stay longer." Bruce chews on his lip. "But I know why you can't."

Bruce nods and closes his eyes, letting Steve rub soft circles on his forehead until the joint is gone. They spend the rest of the day inside while it rains. Bruce makes corn cakes and reads Keats until Steve falls asleep. They fuck in the afternoon, slow and lazy and comfortable after the night before. Steve watches Bruce's body go slack as he pushes into him, fingers leaving bruising marks on his hips, legs curled tight around Steve's waist.

"I feel like I'm living out a really hipster porno," Bruce mumbles, passing another joint for Steve to light. "They totally made Captain America pornos. I've _probably_ watched them."

"That's weird."

"I've seen weirder things," Bruce drawls. Steve suspects it's true. "Come here." He takes one more drag and sets it in the ashtray by the bed, locking Steve's mouth against his own and exhaling. Steve moans a little bit, swallowing heavy when Bruce pushes him back onto the bed and straddles his waist. He grabs to lube from the bedside table, coats his fingers, and pushes two inside himself.

"God, do you even need it --" but the sight of Bruce fucking his own fingers makes Steve’s mouth drop open and he shuts up, just stop because fuck.

"I know," Bruce says, smile wide and wicked. "Just lay there. Let me do the work." Steve's eyes almost roll back in his head from how turned on he is, and that's really fucking saying something. Bruce just stretches himself and Steve watches his fingers dip in and out, watches a third go in. Bruce manages a fourth and Steve thinks that he's going to die before anything-- "Here." Bruce throws a condom at his face. "You can do that much, at least." Steve fumbles it a few times, earning a hard palm on his sternum while Bruce gasps and fucks himself on his fingers. " _Steve_ \--"

"Yeah, yeah, I got it. You're good, you can--" Bruce sinks, takes almost all of him and groans into it, lifting himself and taking Steve hard. Steve's never seen anything like it, nothing but peace written over Bruce's face as he lowers himself onto Steve's cock again and again. He's so calm and focused and Steve's wants his mouth, wants it on his so much. He sits up, hands under Bruce's thighs, helping him adjust.

"Don't leave," he says. Bruce steadies himself on Steve's shoulders, shaking his head, a ragged _Steve, stop_ murmured wet on Steve's ear, but he doesn't want to. He wants this to go on forever, just them on the beach in a house alone, Bruce teaching him about music and blackhole theory, two languages Steve still can't speak. Steve learning the dips and curves of Bruce's body, toned and strong from years on the run. He reaches between them, jerks Bruce off in time with his strokes, until Bruce is almost choking on his orgasm, spilling over Steve's fist and begging him for something, for anything, for everything. Steve pushes him onto his back and rolls his hips, thrusts until he comes, forehead dropping onto Bruce's chest. He feels everything too sharply -- Bruce threading trembling fingers over his scalp, Bruce still clenching around him, Bruce rubbing uneven circles over his back. 

"Steve--"

"I'm sorry," he mumbles, pulling out and stumbling off the bed into the bathroom. He shuts the door behind him and leans against it, tugs the condom off and tosses it in the garbage. He feels stupid, he feels really fucking stupid and incredibly _young_ for the first time since he came off the ice. Bruce is so ageless, so wildly contemporary and infinitely ancient all at once. And Steve is a kid. Still just a fucking kid. He washes his face and goes back out. Bruce is sitting up, facing toward the window, watching the storm clouds continue their endless roll. Steve sits behind him, pressing his lips against Bruce's shoulder, closing his eyes. "I just don't want to be alone anymore."

"I know." 

"I know you do. That's why I want you to stay. You're like me. I mean, you're not--"

"Hey." Bruce turns his head, capturing Steve’s mouth in a slow, peaceful kiss. He pulls back. "I know." He sighs and goes to the window to open it, listening to the rain coming in. "Let's go back to bed," he says. Steve agrees. He knows what he's agreeing to, knows full well what it means to go to bed with Bruce now, with night coming on. Steve feels him leave sometime after midnight, pretends to be asleep through it, feels Bruce’s hands on his shoulder before he goes. He knows why he has to go, why can't stay with Steve in some sad beach house on the ocean for very much longer. And when morning comes and Steve jolts awake, he knows that he won't find Bruce in the house, won't find him coming in from the market, walking up from the beach, rolling a joint on the porch. There are pancakes keeping warm in the stove, and a note, tucked under the wine bottle left on the kitchen table.

_Steve--_

_I made breakfast, but you're probably already stuffing your face. I'm going to Oregon to do something really ridiculous like work on a farm for a few weeks before I dash off to Tokyo and engage in some pretentious sake drinking with Pepper and ten channels of Skinemax. Text me if you're interested in the varying sorts of debauchery we're likely to get up to._

_Take it from a man of long-term solitude, sometimes being alone isn't such a bad thing. But you'll know where to find me. And I'll know where to find you._

_Yours,  
Bruce_


End file.
